


if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills

by philthestone



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: .... be the content u want to see in the world, F/M, Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, i needed to read something Soft so i wrote something Soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-19
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-12-31 12:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12132063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/pseuds/philthestone
Summary: It’s simple and easy and oddly comforting, to be able to catch him before he falls and let him press his mouth against hers, over-warm and insisting that she is something beautiful and soft (not cold and ruthless and displaced), deserving of the unfiltered, lopsided adoration that even when completely drunk, Peter offers her in spades.





	if you see my reflection in the snow covered hills

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. i dont know how to write drunk ppl, forgive me  
> 2\. this is set roughly two (2) years after vol 2  
> 3\. plot is a social construct  
> 4\. title's from fleetwood mac's landslide bc that song rly Set The Mood
> 
> reviews are soft happy things ur way, and my way, and everyone's way

Gamora has never been one to cling to routine. She is designed, crafted bone and sinew to be able to think and act in the moment, after all, rapid-fire reflexes that have alternately saved lives and taken them. Of course, tactically, she is extremely proficient; cool, logical, forward-thinking. But being able to function second-to-second in any given situation is a refined skill, and was – _is_ – very necessary in her line of work.

So she’s never been one to cling to routine.

But there is something to be said about the amorphous tug in her chest at the thought that they might have finally, _finally_ , achieved some semblance of _normality_ in their lives.

“G’mora!”

His face is radiating a kind of lopsided, heedless joy that would have tipped her off even had he _not_ been utterly reeking of alcohol. It’s a sweet, clingy kind of smell – different from the chemical-y tang of the engine fuel that Rocket favors – the sort of cloying scent that she’s come to learn means _expensive_. Dey had really meant it when he’d said _my treat_ , then, Gamora thinks; they’re not broke, exactly, and they have just finished a job, but somehow having to collectively confront their own mortality upwards of two times has made them _more_ fiscally responsible, as opposed to less. An odd turn of events, given Peter’s insistence that they ought to be living more in the _moment_ , but Gamora’s come to realize that a large part of this sentiment hangs empty, as though Peter’s misplaced the meaning and is only repeating it because it’s a familiar statement that he feels the need to cling to. 

He’s really trying, she knows. 

Just as she knows he’s going to trip a half-second before it happens; apparently, Peter’s need to be close to her overrides the part of his brain that would usually tell him that there is a chair in his way, and she hears the scrape of metal against the floor and his inelegant yelp before she catches him easily. She doesn’t stumble under his weight, the bulk of his chest and shoulders caught against her own, but hooks her hands under his armpits to pull him to his feet, hands sliding over the soft leather of his jacket.

His stumble has done nothing to quell his enthusiasm, though – he pulls his chin in to look at her even as she hoists him roughly back upright, grin transitioning from delighted to foolish.

The lighting in their quarters is dim, shadow-y – they’re being _responsible_ , as Gamora has established, and she had been in their makeshift weight-room when they all got back, in the middle of doing pull-ups on the rusty metal bar that’s been installed in the hatchway since Peter was in his teens. No need to run power in places they weren’t using, and besides, Groot and Mantis were finally asleep; low lighting could only be a positive thing. The bad lighting casts a soft, muted look over Peter’s already rumpled self, catching the curl of his hair where it sticks very loosely to his hairline and smattering over his cheekbones where the light filters through his lashes. He’s warm, uncomfortably so, and probably dirty to boot, but Gamora finds that she doesn’t mind; she’s not exactly clean herself, and she can feel her own hair cling to her neck and temples where it’s slipped out of her ponytail, caught in the lingering afterwards of her impromptu workout.

She only just stopped minutes ago, really. The general disarray of the team’s stumble into the hold was loud enough for her to guess that their first time meeting up for post-mission celebratory drinks with Denarian Dey had been a success in at least _one_ sense of the word. 

“ _Shhh_ ,” she says, reprimanding, her lips already pulling into a smile of their own accord, following the laughter in her voice that already betrayed her. He’s not _that_ tall, not relative to many other species Gamora has encountered, but something about Peter in this moment makes her feel like he’s taking up a lot of space, pressed against her and smelling so strongly of alcohol and so _warm_. She doesn’t often register the contrast – how much broader his shoulders are, compared to hers, how thick and solid his wrists look when hers are held alongside them. She’s stronger, of course – ten times, twenty times, it doesn’t really matter – and something about that knowledge is – comforting. She doesn’t like to examine it, but she gets the impression that Peter understands in a way she herself doesn’t; there’s a brightness in his eyes whenever she carries him like a sack of tubers that always manages to put Gamora at ease. “How many drinks did Dey buy you all, huh?”

“Hmm,” hums Peter, still grinning dopily down at her. “Los’ count.”

“I can see that,” says Gamora, voice still a whisper. She’d found him in their quarters, miraculously – she’s honestly a bit surprised he made it all the way there, because Rocket was passed out in the shower tray and she could hear Drax’s snoring carry out of the lounge. But she’d found him, halfway through a vague attempt at shrugging out of his jacket, and she – _they_ – are past the point of her policing the volume, grating as it might be, but she had really only just finally gotten Groot and Mantis to go to asleep and she’s not about to go through the tried-and-true hour-long gentle negotiation process a _second_ time. 

She braces one hand against his ribs and uses the other to maneuver them back around, to face the bunk. He’s hot through the fabric of his shirt, she notices again, under the twisted mess of his jacket – his arms are still caught at an awkward angle – and his breathing is shallow, stuttering.

He really is three sheets to the wind (an expression Peter himself had used only a few weeks ago, in the middle of telling a predictably inappropriate story about a clan of Ravagers he’d met once) and she would chide him for being this drunk if it wasn’t the first time in a long while that she’s seen him like this.

Or, well – perhaps not _that_ long. The first time in a long while that it has been a joyful occasion, Gamora amends, meant to celebrate a hard-worn, simple victory. The total lack of vigilance is forgivable, if not entirely wise.

“‘S Groot ‘n Mantis –”

“Asleep, yes,” says Gamora, raising her eyebrows and twisting her hand around to hold him by the elbow, resting her other hand against his waist, “so don’t you dare do anything to wake them up. You know how hard it is to have peace and quiet when they’re both worked up at once.”

“You – you’re.” He seems to be having a hard time figuring out exactly what it is he wants to tell her, but he’s brought his face down closer to hers in what Gamora assumes is a gesture of earnestness. Even in the half-light of the cabin, she can see the hot flush of his cheeks, the overbrightness in the greens of his eyes. “I mean, thanks – for you, stayin’ back with ‘em, y’know?”

It wasn’t a particularly hard decision; Gamora had no interest in sitting idly by and watching the rest of her team and two of the friendlier Nova officials they knew getting completely sloshed while she remained alert and coherent. A side-effect of her body mods, she knew, and only very rarely lamented her inability to ever get _drunk_. But staying behind with Groot – a baby, and there was at least _some_ agreement between them that lines should be drawn somewhere – and Mantis – who was never being let within twenty feet of alcohol again, following the last, disastrous occasion – was a natural place for Gamora to fit. 

“I didn’t mind,” she says, still holding him upright, reaching down easily to undo his his belt and guns. His face goes very slightly slack, and Gamora raises her eyebrows again. “Rocket’s already passed out in the shower tray – let’s see if you can at least hit the bed.”

“Mmm, no – ‘m not tired –”

“You’re _drunk_ , Peter –”

“You’re so pretty,” sighs Peter, as Gamora half-steers, half-carries him over to the edge of the big bunk. He’s soft and pliant in her arms, almost draped entirely against her; she can feel his grin slowly return where his scruffy cheek is pressed against her neck. The bed dips as she sets Peter down on it, tugging off his jacket properly – he fumbles a bit, arms twitching as he tries to help, and Gamora laughs softly again and bats his elbows out of her way. “Y’re so – God, th’prettiest woman in the whole _galaxy_ –”

“Thank you, Peter,” says Gamora, her mouth twitching with the effort of not widening her smile to an embarrassing degree. Peter leans forward again, lopsided smile hanging in place on his half-open mouth, and she ducks her head so that he doesn’t miss completely, catching his lips with hers. “Mm – _God_ , you taste like Krylorian liquor.”

“I nn – I _know_ ,” slurs Peter. “Drax said – ‘ssaideye couldn’t beat ‘im at a contest ‘n I _did_ –” He hums again, leaning back in and not caring that he’s missing her mouth, pressing sloppy kisses against her chin and jaw.

“I highly doubt that,” says Gamora, tilting her chin on instinct before catching herself and sighing, pulling away to trap his wrists between her fingers. “No wandering hands tonight, Starlord.”

He’s surprisingly compliant, easily letting Gamora detach him from herself and press him down against their lumpy mattress. She flicks his side – a teasing gesture that she had not realized had become so instinctive that it didn’t register in her mind that she was doing it until he slurs out a giggle – and straightens up.

Peter’s face is slack again, but a different sort, this time. Soft, gentle, kind of like when he was gazing with awe at the star cluster they passed only last week, except then there was a measured quality to his expressions, whereas now, here, with his rumpled shirt and sweaty forehead and complete lack of coordination, there’s a distinct lack of deliberation to it.

They’ve achieved a strange semblance of normal, Gamora knows, but she is still not entirely used to being looked at with such open, heedless adoration. It makes her throat constrict, in a way that she’s come to realize means that she desperately _wants_ that to be part of this new normal.

“I am glad your night of drinks went well,” she says. “And no one – died.” That is a real possibility, she knows, given their track record of bar brawls and general pyrotechnics in public spaces. Also the unique ability to be terribly offensive without realizing it. And an unfortunate history with criminal relatives and evil fathers. Gamora grimaces. “It’s important to keep up good relations with the Nova Corps.”

“’M glad you’re here,” Peter responds. It sounds like a response, anyway – Gamora is glad for their team’s success, Peter is glad for _her_. He is two minutes away from passing out completely, she knows from experience, and still has his boots on. 

Gamora says, “I am glad you’re here as well.”

He hums, eyelids fluttering, loose fingers knotting against hers; she hadn’t realized her hand was still against his waist. He’ll be terribly hungover in the morning, she thinks – Rocket will be downright unbearable, and Drax will undoubtedly brew some of his foul-smelling tea. There’s a large chance Groot will complain at not having been allowed out, despite the clear negative side-effects, and Mantis will hover over everybody. 

There is also a distinct possibility that Gamora will receive a comm call at some point from either Dey’s wife or the local authorities, probably to say that Rocket stole something valuable.

But the simple fact that Gamora can predict all of this settles like something warm and solid in her chest, surprising her. 

“So pretty,” Peter mumbles, still hanging onto half a smile, his eyes completely shut, now. 

She swallows, and tugs off her own boots, one-handed because she cannot bring herself to detach their fingers. Foolish, she knows – sentimental. She is cool and logical and forward-thinking, able to exist with little to no stability and still be completely in control. That is what she is _supposed_ to be, not just past tense, but present tense also. _Head and heart_ , Peter himself had joked only a few weeks ago, the two of them laying sprawled uncomfortably on the debris-ridden ground, exhausted, after a particularly grueling job involving Baddoon arms dealers and a Nova Corps outpost. They were – are – team leaders, _plural_. Gamora is okay with that now – with that responsibility. Just as Peter is okay with the responsibility of actually making sure they have a monthly budget, she is okay with being looked to for direction, decision-making, strategy. He is the heart and she is the head, and it’s simple and straightforward and easy to accept. It’s _normal_.

She finishes tugging off her boots and swings her legs over into the bed, curling around his side and pressing herself against him. Her clothes are worked-in and her hair is still tied, her skin sticky from the day. She breathes in and has to work hard to ignore the clinging smell of liquor.

Their fingers are still tangled together.

And she doesn’t mind any of it, barely registers it, because they have done this before in so many different configurations so many times, have slipped in and out of it so often that it’s like the well-oiled sheath of a sword, Gamora and Peter and their piece-meal team, their _family_ , fitting into it with ease.

 _Normality_. 

It’s not permanent, she knows. But –

He sighs in his sleep, and she thinks that he’s going to get cold, probably, in the middle of the night cycle. She grabs the discarded jacket from the floor and drapes it over them, closing her eyes.


End file.
